


A Landscape of Terrors

by Ilthit



Series: Quills [2]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Accidentally Saving the Day, Dominant Masochism, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, In Vino Veritas, M/M, Manipulation, Political talk, Rare Pairings, Sexual Shame, anti-sex work language, more wordcount than warranted, no true love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: In which Mr Segundus's research is interrupted at a critical point by an unwanted visitor.
Relationships: Henry Lascelles/John Segundus
Series: Quills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820632
Comments: 12
Kudos: 6
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Season of Kink





	A Landscape of Terrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeautifulSoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulSoup/gifts).



> A follow-up to 'The Price of Quills'. Unbetaed, so C & C (especially typos, inconsistencies and discrepancies with canon) appreciated.

Starecross Hall stood in the shadow of its trees, looking rather different than the first time Mr Segundus had lain eyes on it. Gone was much of the vegetation that had buried its roots into the facade. The leaves had been swept from the stairs leading up to its entrance; even the packhorse-bridge had been reinforced, and Segundus knew that beyond its walls the gardens had been pruned and made ready for spring. It seemed still just as full of promise as when these changes had first been made, though he knew now that that promise was unlikely be fulfilled. 

Just as Mr Segundus had struggled to believe his school for magicians could ever really be opened, he now found similar difficulty in imagining the prospect wholly disappeared. Perhaps that was what had driven him back here. His letter to Strange had been dispatched two days previously, and would likely reach Shropshire by the evening. All he could do was wait, and waiting did not sit well with him when so much was at stake.

The house had no servants now save for the caretaker, Fellowes. Starecross Hall was a question mark, a vessel lacking a purpose. Segundus gazed upon it some moments before letting out a long breath and tramping up the stairs to the door. He had come here, at least ostensibly, to do research. 

He was by now familiar with the odd turns and twists of the house, which had been built over and added to so often that it no longer followed any clear logic, and it did not take him long to find the writing-room that would have been his schoolmaster’s office. It was as comfortable as any of those parts of the house that they had had time to refurnish, with a carpet that staved off the chill of the bare stone, and walls lined with hangings and book-cases, most of them still half-empty, and the rest filled with volumes chiefly from the house’s own library (which had now been converted into a lecture-hall). By the wide, tall window stood his writing-desk. Segundus ran his fingers down across the new, smooth oak, regretting the many notches and wear it would now likely never have to endure under his hands. 

He sat and pulled out a sheet of paper, and uncorked his inkwell. He had brought his notes; all he needed to do now was to organize and summarize them, to better prepare for the morning. It was now the twenty-second of December, the day of the winter solstice, the precise moment of which (according to Mr Segundus’s calendar) was about to occur as the clock ticked towards four in the afternoon. 

In the days and weeks Segundus had spent in the village of Starecross, both at the Hall and at the inn, he had spoken to a great many of the locals. Partly this was to be sure he did not violate some unspoken rule or ignore a practical detail of village life by the widening of roads or the refurbishment of the packhorse-bridge, and partly to come to know an understand the place. The men who gathered at the Angered Hen did not seem too eager to speak with him at first; only one, an elderly furrier who remembered Mrs Lennox as a girl, eventually agreed to let him buy him a beer, and then another. The furrier spoke, and he drank, and he spoke more.

It was from this man that Mr Segundus had learned of the standing stones. 

Out in the moors beyond Starecross Hall was a place that no-one from the village would visit or even mention, as it was terrible bad luck. Worst luck of all the world was to visit it on a solstice morning, the furrier said with a shudder. One could bring down a terrible curse on one’s head, for sure; and if one lacked heart and courage, perhaps an even greater evil might be unleashed. It was especially dangerous—so the furrier had been told by his father long ago—for children, old men or unmarried youths to approach. A married man could visit, they said, if he were recently wed, and wore iron and silver on his person. Then he might see or hear things within the circle that would warn him of future calamity. A man named Tucker had done so, and been told the village would decline. He had moved out of Starecross that spring, and he and his sons were now shipyard-workers in Liverpool.

Segundus had ventured out looking for the place the following day, and after some plodding along and prodding with his walking stick had found a path through the moors, far more trodden than the furrier’s words would have implied. He had not followed it immediately, but returned the next day earlier and with a packed lunch, and braved the high, chill winds for a closer look. 

The stones had seemed wholly ordinary on approach, five natural rocks propped up in a circle and grown over with moss and grass, but as Mr Segundus closed in upon them, a sense of queerness began to grow upon him, as if the air here was displaced, twisted. He sat and ate his lunch within view of the stones, and ventured closer only after he felt strengthened enough to do so. He rested his hand upon the stone and felt it tingle in answer.

The next week had been full of activity at the Hall, but when he next returned to the stones, Segundus sketched the stones in his notebook, making guesses at the measurements between them. He touched a stone again, and again felt the tingle, but dared not cross into the ring. It would be, he felt, disrespectful of he furrier who had trusted him with his warnings; and besides, there was something here that felt as sucking and terrible as the black eye of a bog. 

But tomorrow it would be the morning after the Solstice, and Mr Segundus had resolved to brave it, despite not being recently married. He had believed he had been led to Starecross Hall for some purpose. If he was not to have his school, then perhaps it was this: The opportunity for learning, or his own demise.

He organized his notes and their copies neatly on his desk for others to find, just in case it was the latter.

-

The sun reached its peak on the sky over Yorkshire, and though the afternoon was cloudy, their cover broke for just that moment. Filtered light turned sharp and bright, warming the guardian stones. The earth between them squirmed and shifted like the belly of a heavily pregnant woman, then lay still as the icy rain hurried back in, beginning to patter on the moors. 

-

It was just past six when Mr Segundus was disturbed in his work by a knock on the door of the library, and immediately following the opening of the same door. To date, Fellowes had not learned to wait for a reply. Indeed, he was lacking in many of the usual customs of an indoor servant, apart from a few rules he stuck to religiously, such as the daily polishing of every boot in the house, whether it had been worn or not. It did not matter much to Segundus; it was easier to adjust to Fellowes’s ways than to reform the man now. 

“Come in,” Segundus said nonetheless, without raising his eyes from the line he was copying into his notebook. “One moment.” He finished and swiveled his chair around. “Oh.”

“A gentleman to see you,” said Fellowes, bowed, and retreated. A tall, thin gentleman in fine Hessian boots and a riding coat stepped in. 

Segundus had not been prepared for visitors, and could not recall ever seeing the man before. He rose as the gentleman shot the servant’s back a frown, then smoothed his features into polite neutrality as he turned back. “Mr Segundus, I believe. We have not met, though you may well have heard my name. I meant to send up my card, but I feel the circumstances allow for some relaxation of the usual formalities. I am Lascelles.”

“Mr Lascelles.” It took Segundus a moment to steady himself on his feet, and it had nothing to do with the fact his left leg had fallen asleep as he sat and worked. He rubbed his thigh. “Of course. I know your work on the Friends of English Magic.” He winced upon uttering the name of the publication, but a faint smile touched Lascelles’s lips. 

“And I yours, on a work of the same name.”

“Well, you are welcome to Starecross Hall, sir,” said Segundus in a tone that suggested the opposite, “in as far as I can make such a welcome, though you may not wish to stay once you find out how little can be accomplished here. I’m afraid John Childermass has already delivered Mr Norrell’s message in a most effective manner. I assume you are here on the same errand?”

“I do not run errands.” Segundus had the sense that he had offended the gentleman, but Lascelles moved on before he could decide whether to apologize for it. The editor of Norrell’s periodical stalked across the study to one of the book-cases and scanned the contents while smoothing his gloves. “But I believe some matters ought to be discussed between gentlemen, rather than dictated through servants. Do you not? I understand you have written to Jonathan Strange.”

“What makes you think so?” said Segundus, though something told him attempts at prevarication would fail. Lascelles merely finished straightening his sleeves and then joined his hands behind his back. 

“That hardly matters, does it, Mr Segundus? You have written to Mr Strange to ask him to interfere on your behalf and make your school for magicians a reality, whatever Mr Norrell’s feelings upon the subject. Sir, I am here to explain to you why, should Strange appear amenable to your cause, you must in all conscience tell him that you have changed your mind, and beg him to give up the notion.”

“I do not see how it is so, or how I could be convinced of it.”

“Ah. But you have offered me your hospitality. Well, Mr Segundus, I have had a long journey, and will gladly accept.” He paused then with another slight smile that did not reach his eyes. His voice was perfectly even, but by the stance of his shoulders, the man was furious. 

Segundus, though not at all pleased at the prospect of entertaining Henry Lascelles for the evening, found himself compelled to call for Fellowes to arrange another plate for dinner and, seeing as how the hour was growing late, open up one of the intended students’ bedrooms for their guest. 

-

No fire had been lit in the crate of the large curving fireplace, and so the midwinter cold permeated the room. Lascelles did not seem to notice it as he leaned the mantelpiece, his narrow calves crossed. Segundus attempted to match the man in front of him with those vague, old memories of their first meeting. He thought Lascelles was thinner and stiffer somehow, though the latter could be attributed to the relatively long ride from the post-chaise’s nearest stop. 

Lascelles noted the Wedgwood vases Mrs Lennox had selected were of a recent design and remarked upon the changes of weather from London to Yorkshire. He had been in Birmingham, it transpired, when he had decided to take a carriage to Starecross. It occurred to Mr Segundus that even that distance, far less than the journey from London, would have taken a day at least to travel—so by whatever means Lascelles had come to know of his letter, it would have had to have happened almost as soon as he had finished writing it, for him to set off the following day to Yorkshire. He set this thought aside, as a puzzle with too many pieces still missing.

Segundus spoke little, sullenly waiting for Lascelles to finish with social niceties and get his business over with. He rather wished that his guest should retire early so he could do the same, to be up in time and refreshed for his visit to the stones. He was tempted to withdraw his spontaneous offer of hospitality, damn all manners, and let the fellow find a bed at the village inn. 

Yet something stopped him from demanding Lascelles get to his point. He knew Lascelles rather better than the man realized, but not yet well enough to know that a refusal to agree with his point of view would not lead to some explosion or more strong-arming from Norrell’s network of connections; besides, they would still have to endure dinner together. Segundus expected it to be a very different affair from the jovial, flowing conversation that had graced the Hall’s table on his first evening here. 

“I did not see many books about magic on your shelf, sir,” said Lascelles at last. 

“No, indeed. There are not many to be had.”

“I am curious as to how you intended to teach magic without books. On what would you base your curriculum?”

“Is that your argument as to why the school should not go ahead, sir? Because if it is, you should know very well the reason for it.”

“No, it is not.”

“Is it that it is impossible, and will ruin me and my benefactors? That is no different from the threat already made and proven. But power has its counterweights.”

“You are getting closer, and while it is certainly true that it would ruin you, that is not my argument.”  
  
The gong sounded. 

Fellowes had come through with dinner, and it was excellent—for all his lack of tact, food was an area in which the man outdid himself. As Segundus waved away the white wine, it occurred to him that there was a way, after all, of ensuring that Lascelles would go to bed early and happy, and not rise until noon the following day. As Fellowes bent over to ladle out Segundus’s soup, he instructed him quietly to bring up cognacs and portwine with the following dishes, and to not water down any ale that might be requested. 

Lascelles ate slowly, sparingly, and continued to talk without saying anything very much; but having been drawn into the subject of magic, his discourse became more compelling despite Segundus’s disinclination to be entertaining. Lascelles talked freely of medieval court intrigue surrounding magicians favoured by the southern English king and of parliamentary requirements for wartime magic, but when Segundus interjected with a question about the difficulties of predicting future events, his answer was vague. “If it can be done, of course it would be most useful,” was the entirely of his comment, after which he moved on to the subject of funding Mr Norrell’s theoretical Cinque Dragownes. 

He was speaking of power. Perhaps it was to reinforce the point he had claimed not to be making—that an uprising against Norrell would be as futile as attempting to depose the king. And worse than that, he did not seem to be getting drunk, though Segundus had twice filled his glass with portwine instead of the red. Segundus himself felt his attention and conviction falter under the strong, dark beer Fellowes had served in place of the usual weak ale. 

“Am I to guess once more?” said Segundus after the plates had been cleared away and they rose to return to the drawing-room. “I have not heard much to convince me I should not seek or follow Strange’s advice about my school.”

“You mentioned power’s counterweights earlier.” The fire had now been lit in the drawing-room and it threw flickering shadows across the walls (in the absence of permanent residents, little oil had been left in the lamps). Segundus headed for the cabinet of drinks and unlocked the tantalus, pouring himself water and Lascelles more port. “Consider, then, the consequences should the current difference of opinion between the two premier magicians of England be tied to formal institutions.”

“Mr Norrell appears before the Parliament!”

“Precisely—he is a politicians’ magician, as I am a magician’s politician.” Lascelles’s smile was broader now, and his eyes glittered, and Segundus thought for the first time that he was more affected by the drink than he appeared. The gentleman’s diction, however, remained perfect. “But then what is Mr Strange? Whose is he, but his own? You may see Mr Norrell as an autocrat, but he is constrained by his service to England. Strange is not. Now imagine a school of new practical magicians pledged to Strange—each of them schooled without the benefit of Norrell’s expertise. Whether you like it or not, Mr Norrell is the First Magician of England not by chance, but because it is what he has studied and worked for his whole life. He is the only one with the proper learning to be entrusted with state matters—or the education of future magicians.”

“But he does not do so,” interjected Segundus. “Strange was his only student. If Mr Norrell intends to prevent anyone else from learning what he knows, what good is all his expertise to England?” 

“What good is it to make England a country of bumbling, half-educated fools turning their neighbours’ milk into curd?” Lascelles gestured with his half-empty glass and his lip twitched. Segundus quickly refilled the glass to the brim, and Lascelles took a deep drink before continuing. “I may not be able to convince you that it is safer to contain the use of magic—that assertion has been repeated enough in the publication you claim to be familiar with. But you are an educated man, Mr Segundus, and familiar with history. You must know that when a group of idealistic malcontents organizes itself against the realm, what may have remained a disagreement between gentlemen scholars will transform into something more sinister, with consequences that reach beyond the academic. A radical organization, with an ideology that becomes ever more locked in place and unforgiving over time, which in turn will lead to—death, to be brief. Gunpowder plots, Luddites, guillotines and civil war. And we have had quite enough war in the recent years.” There was heat behind his words now, and Segundus could believe that Lascelles, at least, believed what he was saying.

There you had it, then. “A school of magic, then, would be equivalent to treason, you say.” 

“Not equivalent to it—but a breeding place for it! Any projected school of magic ought to be neutral, distinguished, scholarly, and above all, loyal to the King and his parliament. To England.” 

“And you see Mr Strange and myself as none of these things?” Segundus’s temper had been rising steadily through the night, bolstered by drink, and it was about to break. 

“Loyalty to parliament,” barked Lascelles, slurring his R for the first time in the night, “means loyalty to Mr Norrell. Until they decide to sponsor Strange over Norrell, the Strangite position is by definition in opposh— excuse me. Opposition.” 

“Please sit down, Mr Lascelles.” 

Lascelles did, somewhat heavily, though his back remained straight. He set the glass down upon a small table beside him and drew in a long breath through his nostrils. “Well, Mr Segundus?” he said after a pause. “Can you refute it?”

Segundus thought that any agent who pressured and bullied his academic peers into silence ought not be the favourite of the parliament, and also that parliament itself likely held many men less loyal to the crown than to their own pockets. However he said, “Perhaps we should continue this conversation in the morning.” 

“In the morning?” Lascelles inquired with a raised brow. “It is not even midnight. No-one ever finished a meaningful conversation over breakfast. No, Mr Segundus. Sit down with me. Talk with me. Explain yourself to me! I do not understand you.”

Segundus had no desire to do so, but sit down he did. 

“I do not mean to take away your opportunity for an occupation, if that is what concerns you,” said Lascelles impatiently. “Perhaps if you could bring yourself to Mr Norrell’s point of view, the paper—”

“Absolutely not.” Segundus shook his head forcefully, then had to stop to steady his spinning vision. 

“Have I been wasting my time, sir?” 

“Mr Lascelles,” said Segundus, without ever having made the conscious decision to do so, “are you a practical magician?”

“I? Hardly.” Lascelles laughed. “Nor a theoretical one… Perhaps a political one.”

“Then how? How did you know that I had written to Strange? I only did so the other day.”

“Shall I tell you?” There was a twinkle in Lascelles’s eye as he crossed his hands over his chest, pressing the fingertips together. “Or shall we trade? A secret for a secret.”

“I have no secrets,” said Mr Segundus with some bitterness. “At least any that are mine to tell.”

“Why, other people’s secrets are ever so much more entertaining.” That ramrod straight posture melted into a lounge. Lascelles leaned his cheek upon his fist, and his elbow upon the curving arm of the chair. The assault, it appeared, was over for the moment. 

“What if I tell you one of yours?” Segundus snapped. 

Lascelles’s eyebrows rose. “That might be worth hearing, indeed. Very well. Tell me something about myself, and I will tell you how I knew that you had written to Strange.” 

Segundus took a long breath. He ought to have thought this through, perhaps, but ever since he had heard the man’s name, he had felt the compulsion to confess all. It was unbearable that he remembered, while Lascelles did not. Worse even was the thought that Lascelles might, at any moment, begin to remember it himself. “In the fall of seventeen-ninety-six,” he began, “you visited an establishment in Soho and contracted a person for your company for the evening.”

Lascelles narrowed his eyes. “Possible. That is not that unusual, Mr Segundus, though I dare say it is a vice I have indulged in less than most men.”

“You paid the man—” and here Segundus thought he saw Lascelles shift uncomfortably, “—far more than the services he provided were worth, by the house’s tally, and left without leaving your name.”

Lascelles sighed and dug his knuckles into his chin. “What of it if I did? Now—come to think of it, I do recall something of the night. It was an anomaly for me at the time, which rather makes it stand out in one’s memory. The Red Goat, I believe the place was called? Something of the sort.”

Had Segundus expected him to be ashamed? Perhaps, but he saw now that that was not Lascelles’s way. He forged on ahead. “The man you paid, as it turns out, had only been persuaded to appear that evening for great want of money, and never repeated the exercise. Having set his affairs in order at your expense, he later wished to seek you out repay you what he could.”

“Rather noble,” said Lascelles drily. “And did he find me?”

“He did, sir. He found your name, your address, and the name of the lady you were at the time engaged to.” 

“Ah. That old affair.”

“Yes. Well. Given the circumstances, he chose not to approach you, lest he do more harm than good by settling his debt. He resolved to focus upon his own future, such as it was, though the debt still weighed on him whenever he happened to think of it. He did not realize the marriage had not gone through until he heard the editor of the Friends was still a bachelor.” 

Lascelles had gone still. “You?”

Segundus blushed. It was an unfortunate physiological quirk he had never yet been able to shake. “I. Yes.”

Lascelles broke out laughing, picked up his discarded glass and drank, then nearly made himself choke with a new set of giggles. “How ridiculous! And here we are! I had contemplated offering you some service or income to make you give up on Strange, but I see now that would not have tempted you. Or shall forgiveness do what bribery cannot? If I release you of a debt I did not even recall, would that oblige you to consider your position?” 

Segundus shook his head, more carefully this time. “You can settle your own debt, sir, by explaining how you came to be so well informed of my correspondence!”

“I shall. Indeed.” Lascelles took another drink. “I was in Birmingham, as I mentioned, visiting my aunt. Such things still must be attended to once in a while, even if the parliament is in session. She had it from Lady Francis, who heard it from a Mrs Blake, who was the sister-in-law of another Mrs Blake, who is the companion of your benefactress Mrs Lennox, that Mr Segundus would make an appeal to Mr Strange on the question of the Starecross school. You see, one hardly needs a bowl of water or a blackened mirror if one has aunts.” 

Segundus pressed his teeth together and curled his fingers against his breeches, staring fixedly at the fire until it blurred into flickering orange and yellow. He felt a somewhat complete nincompoop. Lascelles, whose chair was set adjacent to his, scooted forward and leaned over the table that separated them. “I hope I have not disappointed you,” he purred. That appeared the best word to describe the intimate murmur to which his voice had dropped. “Either by the simplicity of the explanation—or, all those years ago, as a lover.” Segundus had not even noticed Lascelles was reaching until a hand brushed a stray lock of his hair behind his ear. He jerked his head away. “Was it really so terrible?”

“No, sir,” Segundus replied. “Not terrible.” Not, at least, in the way the gentleman intended the question, or the way Segundus had chosen to think of it at the time. What had been terrible about it had come later—the disquiet he had felt, first at the debt and then the episode itself; the shame that crept in whenever he passed a gaggle of whores, or heard a reverend preach on the subject of filthy, disease-spreading prostitutes that corrupted good men and destroyed devoted families. 

He had needed money. That had been all. And it had only been that one time. 

Lascelles withdrew half-way back into his own chair, leaning his elbows on the arm. His eyes were twinkling with some dark amusement. “You know, if you will not accept my forgiveness of your debt, nor are able to pay it, perhaps you can set your broiling conscience to rest simply by giving me what I paid for. The proprietor had a list, as I recall.”

“You are not serious, Mr Lascelles.” 

“Most astute. You know what I want from you.”

Segundus opened his mouth, then closed it again. A wild idea was growing in his mind. It only needed to push through the fog of alcohol to emerge. Lascelles would try to use the debt—the truth—to press his advantage. The debt could be neutralized and Lascelles put most effectively to bed if only—if only… “What was on that list?” he wondered aloud. 

Lascelles sat back. “Oh, I don’t recall. Some of it was rather absurd.” He thought for a moment, smiling to himself. “Seven. I rather liked the idea of number seven. Or was it eight?” 

Segundus swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry and would have appreciated a gulp of port. Lascelles’s glass was still half full. “You will have to remind me.” 

Lascelles turned his head without shifting from his languid pose, his eyes now decidedly bleary. “Mr Segundus,” he asked, “are you trying to seduce me?”

-

The night reached its darkest hour. The earth between the guardian stones lay still, but under a thin layer of earth, a pair of eyes opened. 

Twice the stones had licked up what was needed for the spell to be broken. Once more, at the right time, and the ground’s frozen crust would break at last. 

A mouth opened under the ground, dirt in its throat. 

\- 

“Well,” said Mr Segundus, feeling brave though his mouth was dry, “it wasn’t terrible.”

He was not in the least amorously inclined towards his guest, or in general—he had passed these two decades without seeking or even thinking about the pleasures of the flesh. It had not seemed to matter at all in the face of—well, everything else. Besides, Segundus was beginning to think he was getting too old to be dallying with men, and had never had any real interest in dallying with women.

He glanced warily up at Mr Lascelles. The man was his enemy, a bully and a schemer, and someone he very much wanted out of his sight and out of his life. Yet as Lascelles suppressed laughter behind pursed lips, the drink compelled Segundus to admit to himself that some part of him also wanted him. Lascelles was all long limbs and angles that he could no longer remember touching; all potential for something of which he could only remember the shape, not the sensation.

Besides, while Mr Segundus was not a violent man, he felt he could strike Lascelles simply to wipe that look off his face, and that unusual impulse mixed in his mind with the impulse to yank him close by his hair and kiss him. It was all rather confusing.

“Well, then, sir, perhaps this visit has not been entirely a waste of time.” Lascelles moved, and Segundus had the impression of his white socks flashing in the low light, and then all of a sudden—as if he had lost time between the start of the movement and its conclusion—there Lascelles was, his hands on Segundus’s knees, leaning in, and then they were kissing. 

It really had been a shockingly long time. 

Segundus lifted his chin to meet the kiss but his hands merely squeezed the arms of his chair, unsure what to do. Lascelles’s gloves were gone and his long fingers curled against Segundus’s cheek, then under his chin, guiding him into the kiss. There was a soft sound of pleasure as their tongues met, and Segundus realized at a remove that it was he who had made it.

“Oh, I remember now,” Lascelles murmured as he withdrew, “why I picked you.”

“Why, exactly?” There was perhaps a note of sullenness in Segundus’s voice. 

“That charming hesitation.”

Lascelles withdrew and offered his hand. “Come, sir. Up the stairs and third door on the right, I believe your man said?”

“I’ll show you,” said Segundus, and picked up a candle as Lascelles helped him up.

The sound of Lascelles’s boots on the stairs behind him sounded like the ticking of a clock. It must have been nerves, or something else; either way Segundus’s unwanted excitement grew at each step. The whole thing was so completely different from the usual beats of his life that what ought to feel sordid now felt like an act of bravery. 

The bedroom had no fireplace of its own, but the chimney ran along one wall and radiated heat into the room; even so the air retained some touch of winter. Segundus heard the door close behind them and then he was pressed up against it, pinned between the wood and Lascelles’s mouth. 

Segundus found his lips falling open obediently, his head tilting back and up just for another lascivious touch of tongue. He hesitated (charmingly or not, he could not say) and wrapped first one arm around the man’s waist, feeling the crunch of the rich, new fabric of his waistcoat under his coat, and another around his shoulders. He mixed his fingers in the short hairs at the back of the man’s head, very nearly remembering something terribly erotic at the sensation. He moaned into Lascelles’s mouth, and again when the man’s thigh pressed up between his, meeting a swelling reaction. 

Lascelles’s eyes were glittering again as he withdrew an inch, starting to work out his necktie. “Wait, wait,” Segundus breathed, even though his own hands were busy on the buttons of Lascelles’s waistcoat. “Number seven, or maybe eight, you said? What was—”

“Ah, yes.” The man’s voice was rough; it was gratifying to know he was affected as well. Lascelles retreated, yanking off his necktie in quick practiced movements and pulling off his coat. “We’ll need a writing-set.”

“A… a writing-set?”

“A quill and a ruler will do.” Lascelles looked about the room, his eyes alighting on a desk. “Ah.” He opened the desk and found what he needed. Lascelles pressed the items into Segundus’s hands, then pulled him towards the bed with its heavy quilt cover. “Do not worry, sir. I will instruct you.” He sat Segundus down on the bed, dishevelled and disoriented, and divested himself of his waistcoat and shirt. 

Segundus’s eyes roamed hungrily down his body. No longer young, rather too thin, but with a rider’s sturdiness and an unmistakable otherness that lit up Segundus’s nerves and made moisture pool in the bottom of his mouth. He followed the faintest line of hair disappearing under Lascelles’s tented breeches and squeezed the ruler so hard it dug into the flesh of his palm. Then those long-fingered hands went to his breeches’ clasp and Segundus nearly fainted.   
  
The candle’s light was sparse, but the crescent moon outside the window came out from behind the clouds and brightened the room. Lascelles’s limbs cast strange shadows over his bare chest and stomach as he lay down and beckoned for Segundus, who crawled over him on all fours. “What—”

Lascelles took his hand holding the quill and turned it, positioned it, drew the feather still in Segundus’s hand across his own chest. 

“Ah. I see.” 

And he did see. The gentleman who had first brought him to the Red Billy had been loquacious, knowledgeable, and tactile in his explanations; indeed, Segundus felt he had had a rather thorough education on the profession after Mr Ernestine had sat him down for tea, biscuits and an intimate chat. Some details one simply does not forget. 

“First the feather,” Lascelles said without letting go of his wrist, “then the ruler.”

Segundus nodded, and Lascelles released his grip, settling down with his head pillowed on one arm. Segundus blinked away from the expression on his face and balanced above him, willing himself the courage to begin. 

The first careful stroke across the man’s collarbone produced a promising shiver. Emboldened, Segundus used the feather to trace down that narrow chest, skirting a nipple, and along the ribs to the belly, and that faint trail of hair. Down and around the jut of pelvic bone, a light touch on the upper thigh, the muscles of which twitched in response. 

His own fingers curled tight on the cover as the exploration continued. Lascelles turned his face towards the shadows, the shifting of his body the only guidance Segundus had to rely upon. He wanted to press his mouth on that pale skin, to trace the path of the feather. He nearly did, but then Lascelles rolled over. 

Around and between the shoulderblades, and a tickle at the back of his neck. A long stroke along the side of his neck again, and down the line of his spine. A slow turn around the spare swell of his hips, and a squiggling motion down his thigh. 

Segundus worked in this manner a while, until Lascelles raised his head from the covers and demanded in a voice now rougher than before: “The ruler, if you please, Mr Segundus.”

Segundus dropped the quill and picked up the wooden ruler, testing it against his own hand. Lascelles made a noise at the sound of it hitting his palm. 

He started with the thighs. 

By the time Lascelles rolled over again, he was panting and glistening with sweat, and even in the dark Segundus knew his skin had pink stripes across his back and thighs. His cock was hard and dark against his belly, and Segundus found himself tongue-tied staring at it, until Lascelles pulled him down roughly and loosened that tongue with his own. 

“Mm, ahh,” is all Segundus could manage, but he needed, simply needed to feel Lascelles on him. He let his hands do his talking, tearing at his own clothes. Lascelles joined in, and after a violent tumble (Segundus spared a thought to his poor buttons) he got what he wanted, Lascelles’s leg thrown over his own naked hip, his cock snug against his own, mouth devouring his. 

“Your mouth on me,” Lascelles demanded between kisses. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

Segundus nodded wordlessly and traced the previous path of his feather down Lascelles’s body with his lips, ending up inches from his darkened cock-head, the intoxicating scent of arousal in his nostrils. He followed it to the taste of leaking seed, and on to the weight of flesh on his tongue. 

Lascelles grabbed his hair, not to tug, but to guide, and Segundus opened up, pressed his tongue up against the underside and let his head be moved in rhythm to Lascelles’s upward thrusts. The member hit the back of his throat and almost made him gag, but he only clung on to Lascelles’s thighs harder. He was buzzing with nonsensical pleasure; suckled and licked as best the motions allowed, until those jabs sped up, then turned slow, purposeful, a steady staccato, until Lascelles stiffened and stilled with a cry.

Segundus closed his throat as the first spurt of come hit his mouth, but massaged Lascelles with his tongue until the man was fully spent. He gently lifted his mouth off him, licked his lips, and swallowed that bitter taste down. Lascelles’s hand on his head had gone slack, and slid off, hitting the covers with a thump as he wiped his brow and his eyes, and took a deep breath as if the still the heaving of his chest.

“Oh, God,” moaned Lascelles, then commanded, “Come. Come here.” 

Segundus crawled over and found himself grasped and turned until they both lay on their sides, Lascelles’s length pressed against his back. His thigh was lifted, his knee propped up, and then a slick hand closed over his cock. That tight grasp spread saliva and seed over Segundus’s tight-drawn skin, squeezing the pleasure out of him. Lascelles’s teeth and lips were on his neck, scraping and sucking and caressing as he worked him, his own wet, spent cock pressed up against and between Segundus’s buttocks. 

Segundus squirmed and bucked his hips, grasped Lascelles’s head in a backward grip and craned his neck to meet his mouth. They moved together like that, locked in a sweaty cocoon of warmth, rocking towards release. 

Like an old friend, it came both too soon and far too late. Segundus spilled over Lascelles’s fist, his own stomach and the quilt, convulsing helplessly in his grip. His limbs fell nerveless on the bed; his mouth fell open and gasping against the quilt. He had forgotten how pleasure could push one out of one’s mind, in quite a different sense than desire itself ever did.

His motive for arriving here had been practical; having arrived, a nonsensical affection and need for same overtook him, and he turned in Lascelles’s arms to caress him and drop kisses along his abused chest. His fingers found welts still marked on that pale skin, pressing of which made Lascelles hiss and stroke his back; an odd marriage of caresses and violence. 

The moment stretched into sighs, and then into a blessed, thoughtless darkness. 

-

Segundus woke up with a breeze cooling his back. He sat bolt upright, then regretted it as his head spun. Next to him, Lascelles sighed and turned to his side. 

The night was still dark. He had not missed the dawn at the standing stones, even with the trek through the moors still ahead of him. He rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks to wake himself up all the way, then climbed out of bed. The abused quilt stood as stiff and unforgiving as ever, with Mr Lascelles on top of it, so Segundus took the candle, now burned to a stub, to the wardrobe for a spare blanket to throw over the man’s sleeping form. Finding his own clothes proved more of a challenge, but he finally escaped missing only a sock. He closed the door quietly behind himself. 

A new pair of socks and a warm coat, a hat, gloves and a scarf later, Mr Segundus braved the stinging night wind with his walking stick and his notes. The cold chased away his yawns, though he knew the lack of sleep would return to haunt him in the form of a headache and a sullen disposition in the afternoon. He had got rather used to keeping regular hours. 

As he took up the path through the moors, tiny flakes of snow began to drift down, which disappeared into the dead grass and melted on the rim of his hat. The moors at night had sounds he had never noted during the day; every rustle seemed a sign of some unseen animal, every bump a root to snare his foot. But he poked and prodded at the ground with his stick and the tall grasses parted, and in due time he arrived at his destination unmolested by beast or man. The stones stood against the pale pre-dawn sky like crouching old men, or gaps of darkness within the landscape. 

Segundus took a breath of air and ordered his thoughts. The furrier had never gone into detail about how precisely to provoke a revelation. He could feel the ground heavy with magic. It blurred the edges of his vision, pulsed in the air like a pustule about to burst. Segundus grit his teeth and stepped closer, stumbled over a loose stone, and fell forward, catching himself on the nearest stone. 

The stone gripped him. His hand became stone, inseparable of it. The crust of it crept up his fingers and across the back of his hand. He pulled at it, but he might as well have been trying to pull his own arm apart.

“Oh dear,” said Mr Segundus. His notebook fell, its pages fluttering open as he joined his other hand to the effort to yank the first one back. His vision became blotchy, darkness creeping in from the edges even as the bright sliver of sun peeked over the horizon.

It seemed no time had passed at all before Segundus blinked himself awake, but he found himself flat on his back, and that sliver had grown into half a sphere, the sky a pale arch overhead. The backs of his breeches and socks were cold and wet as he sat up and lifted his hands up for inspection. Both were pink with frost, but otherwise whole and perfect. 

“Well, gentlemen,” he addressed the stones, “I see you have not devoured me after all. I don’t suppose that means you have decided to grant me great knowledge?”

The sense of magic was gone. It was simply a rather miserable midwinter morning, and the stones were nothing but rocks. Segundus sighed and stood up, dusting off his breeches and coat, and picked up his notebook. Mud had painted patterns on its open pages, almost like long-lost writing. 

-

 _The man buried here shall not rise again_ , a magician had once said as the last stone was erected, _until the end of all time._

 _Not unless_ , muttered the murdered king’s wife, _a man pure for a score of years touches the stone three times over the solstice period._ It was the only counter-curse she knew, and it had been taught to her by her husband for just such an occasion. 

But they killed her, too, drowned her in the river with stones tied to her feet, before she ever found a chaste man for the task. Grass grew over the grave, the king waited, and the world changed. 


End file.
